


Place Your Hands Into the Fire

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: JackSepticEye (YouTube RPF), Markiplier (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. He loves Mark and Mark loves him, and that will be enough. That's all Jack needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Place Your Hands Into the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first real thing I've written since getting better. Speaking of which--sorry I haven't been around! Been recovering from wisdom teeth removal and haven't been up to writing. But here I am again. With some hurt/comfort. I've been a little bleak and sad lately, so I thrust all of my pain into Jack. But at least Jack has Mark. 
> 
> Also, symbolism for days. I love symbolism. This piece is heavy with it. 
> 
> Anyway. I got some old stuff I need to post on here, more little oneshots, so stay tuned for those. YGTL is also coming back really soon! 
> 
> That said, enjoy!

“Come inside.”

Jack inclines his head slowly, almost painfully towards the door, soaked through and through from the rain. He's out in the backyard, staring up at the darkened night sky, wondering if the rain will stop anytime soon. He hopes it doesn't. He wants to stand out here forever. Maybe it'll fill him with _something_. 

(Maybe he'll drown.)

But Mark's words don't allow him to lose himself any longer, however. They're not commanding, but they're firm, and Mark won't take no for an answer. Jack sighs, and with his shoulders drooping, he slinks his way over to the backdoor where Mark steps back, allowing him to enter before shutting it behind him. The minute he hits the tiled floor of their kitchen, he's grateful it's tile—otherwise the carpet would be sopping wet. There's already a puddle around him. 

“Wait here,” Mark says, and Jack remains still, feeling the water droplets slide down his cheeks, down the back of his hand and down his legs, trapped inside of his soggy jeans. 

The rain fills the silence Mark leaves. Jack wonders if his heart is still beating, it's so quiet inside of him. 

Mark returns a few moments later, a towel draped over one arm with his other arm carrying clothes. He sets them on the kitchen table, then locks eyes with him, as he tells him, “Change.”

It is amazing what he will do for Mark, Jack thinks. If Mark weren't here, he'd still be outside. Or he'd be inside, sitting in his sopping wet clothes on the kitchen floor, contemplating suicide more than likely. But as Mark requests, he begins to peel his hoodie off of himself, letting it drop to the floor. It hits the tile with a slick _thud_. Next comes his t-shirt, and then his jeans, and before long he's standing in his wet boxers, wondering if he should take those off, too. 

Mark's seen him naked before—that's not new. That's not the problem. But he feels so self conscious, suddenly, especially with Mark's eyes not wavering from him in the slightest. There's no lust in his boyfriend's gaze, though—only a thinly veiled look of concern, which Jack assumes means he's already planning on what to do after Jack gets dressed, and what happened that got him into this state. When Mark gives a slight nod, Jack pulls his boxers off, before reaching for the clothes on the table. He sifts through them for a moment, and finds that none of these clothes are his, save for the new pair of boxers.

He pulls the new clothes on slowly, after stepping forward a fraction to get out of his own puddle of water. As he pulls on the pants, Jack realizes they're not only pajamas, but also Mark's pajamas. 

When he slides the shirt on over his head, Jack breathes in the scent of his boyfriend, and while it washes over him pleasantly, emptiness still lingers in his chest. The smell of their laundry detergent always reminds him of _home_ , the purest form, and home is a nice thing, but it cannot fill the void. Mark hands him the towel, and Jack uses it to dry his hair. He wraps it around his shoulders afterward, and Mark extends his hand.

Jack takes it. Mark pulls him closer and kisses him gently on the corner of his mouth, not quite on his lips, but it's a kiss all the same. The chill of the water finally settles into him, and he shivers. Mark shakes his head, perhaps a little exasperated, but not irritated, as he pulls him towards the living room. It's completely dark, save for the light of the fireplace, a dull orange glow emanating from it. 

It's a little funny that they're using their fireplace this early. It's not even that cold outside, yet. Autumn is hardly upon them, the cruel heat of summer dimming down to a cool air only, the use of jackets needed but nothing to warrant a fireplace. Then again, Mark always seems to take precautions with Jack, and it's not like he can deny that the warmth feels incredible against him. 

Mark sits him down in front of it, and Jack closes his eyes, letting the light illuminate his skin. Mark squeezes his shoulder gently, and mumbles, “I'm going to make you some tea, okay?”

He nods, eyes still closed. The sound of Mark's footsteps retreating back to the kitchen barely register with. Jack's mind begins to buzz, that static feeling building inside of him as the crackle of the fire lulls him further into himself, away from home, away from Mark. 

This happens a lot. Jack forgets himself. Or, no—no, he doesn't _forget_ , not himself. But he forgets everything that makes him _feel_. He feels like he's piloting an empty shell, a weightless meat sack that has nothing of value or purpose to it. 

Sometimes it's worse than this. Standing in the rain is minor compared to everything else that he's tried to do. The desire to drown outside is so minuscule compared to the hysteria he goes through. 

All things considered, Mark shouldn't even be in his life anymore. He should be gone, out in the world, settled into a comfortable routine with an emotionally stable partner who doesn't think about killing themselves on a regular basis. 

But here he is. With Jack. Making him tea in the kitchen even though he's probably exhausted out of his mind. Here he is with Jack, living in a cute little house that belongs to no one but them, dealing with all of his moods in stride, as if they don't bother him at all. 

Jack opens his eyes. He loves Mark. He loves him so much that it should hurt. He knows he loves Mark, but he can't—he can't _feel_ it right now, and it scares him. It scares him that he can't feel the love in his heart for the only person that really matters to him. 

He stares into the flames. Maybe he needs to shock himself back into feeling again. Like a slap in the face. He'd ask Mark to do it, but that isn't fair—Mark would be mortified by the thought. He would never raise a hand to him anyway. But if Jack were to do it himself, as he has tried before, Mark would be even more angry. 

Jack passes a sideways glance towards the kitchen, and he strains to hear for any sign of his partner returning. Nothing. Jack swallows thickly. 

A look back to the flames. The flames would be a huge shock. They would _definitely_ make him feel, if he were...if he were to just... 

Without giving it any further thought, Jack moves his hand, inching his fingers closer and closer to the inside of the brick finish. The heat consumes him the closer he gets, and just a fraction more and he'd make contact--

Clatter. “ _Sean_!” 

Jack finds himself being yanked back, a vice grip on his shoulders as Mark sinks down next to him, pulling him against him. It's almost unbearable, his hold, only growing tighter as he's hissing over and over, “What the fuck, what the fuck, Jack, don't do that, don't do that, _please_.”

His face presses into the crook of Mark's neck, and he peers up over his shoulder to see a mug on the carpet, a tea stain right next to the spoon, which is only a few centimeters from it. That must have been the clatter he'd heard. Mark continues to squeeze the life out of him and the realization of what he'd just tried to do hits him, then.

“Fuck,” Jack mumbles, burying his face into Mark's shoulder, breathing in deep. He tries to steady himself, to ground himself, but he can't. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

A sense of anger overwhelms him. God, why is he such a mess? Why does he feel the need to do all of this outrageous shit to himself? Why can't he be normal?

Why does he put Mark through so much? Why can't he just be a good boyfriend?

Hot tears well in his eyes, and he trembles as he continuously repeats, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck--_ ”

Mark brings a hand up, petting the back of his damp hair, soothing him, but the gesture brings him no solace. The shaking doesn't subside as he screams into his boyfriend's shoulder, and at this, Mark squeezes him tighter, unrelenting in his hold. 

He can't fall apart in this hold. Mark is the glue holding his fragile pieces together.

_He wants to break._

It would be better for everyone.

“Let me _go_ ,” Jack spits, but he makes no effort to relinquish his own hold on Mark's shirt, his fingers curled into the material. Mark says nothing, so he repeats, “Let me go...” 

Jack is surprised when Mark's grip on him loosens, but his hands never leave him. Originally, his arms were wrapped around him, but his hands move to his shoulders, then to cup his cheeks, running his thumbs over his cheekbones. Mark's hands are so steady against him, not a shake or a shimmer, and this is why he is surprised to see Mark's eyes glistening in the light of the fire, damp with tears. 

“I don't want to let you go,” he whispers, voice heavy. “I _won't_.”

Jack's heart quiets in his chest. He hadn't noticed it pick up speed earlier. Mark's words shock him—he'd never been so forceful in his words, but the intensity of his gaze burns into him, and he knows that Mark is sincere in this. He won't let go. Jack breathes in.

He raises his hands and wraps his fingers around Mark's wrists, clutching them tight, and he closes his eyes again. 

His shoulders slump. He's so tired. 

“I love you,” Jack says, and he feels the tears coming on again. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Mark replies, and when Jack opens his eyes, Mark's smiling. “I love you too.”

His boyfriend leans forward and Jack expects Mark to kiss him, but he doesn't. Instead, he presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, then rests his own against him. Jack wraps his arms around his neck, and Mark shimmies closer, pulling him in by the waist. 

The feeling of love begins to fill him. The feeling that he'd craved, earlier, that he'd been desperate to find again. It hurts a little, but it softens out into an easy, comforting sort of thing. It spreads from his heart down his chest, down his legs and to the tips of his toes, up his arms and into his fingers. He can feel it in his cheeks as he begins to smile, just softly, just gently, and he sighs. He remembers this feeling. He remembers the feeling of Mark. 

And Mark will be here. Mark will bring him home if he strays away. And he's okay with that. He loves Mark and Mark loves him, and that will be enough. That's all Jack needs.

The fireplace crackles, drowning out the rain on the roof as they breathe in and out slowly.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & Comments mean the world to me. Thank you!


End file.
